Tue, 07/30/2013 - 23:45 -- JuliaV


I don't write as a mere form of expression,

As means of feeling free.

Hell, sometimes it seems it's been months or years

Since I've really even written for me.

So, why do I even write?

The answer lies out plain and clear

I write for the people who are not here.


I write for my hero, my Superman.

The one who's kryptonite was just one pill 

too many.

The man who was loved and gave love

To everyone, to all, to any.


I write for the woman behind the scars

The one who arose, a flame.

Went into the darkness, but came out a Pheonix

And bares her marks of the game.


For the man taken so many years

By three bullets to the chest.

The grandfather who saw my first year

But never any of the rest.


The angel we lay six feet down

The girl who looks like me.

The sister who was taken far too soon

And left me here, to be.


I, lastly, write for her.

The old, tired woman in the bed.

She was to live forever.

At least, that's what we all said.

She no longer walks in her gardens

No more, "Baby, I'm just fine"

She walks in the Gardens of Eternity

No longer worrying about time.




I write to keep these people alive.

So they never fade away.

I write for the immortality 

Of the ones who couldn't stay.


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